


and all at once

by buttcasino



Series: enchanted to meet you [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Meet-Cute, Reunited and It Feels So Good, a disgusting amount of cheesiness and tropes, brief Eliot/OMC but barely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 15:50:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26990161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttcasino/pseuds/buttcasino
Summary: The night before the new school year begins at Brakebills, Eliot meets a cute guy at a bar in the city and accompanies him to a party at a random apartment. He doesn't know it, but his life is about to change forever.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: enchanted to meet you [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969885
Comments: 36
Kudos: 180





	and all at once

**Author's Note:**

> So this is obviously not the next chapter of Cursed Tall Quentin! That will be coming soon, I promise.
> 
> But you know when a story just pops into your head fully formed? That's what happened here, and I had to get it out. 
> 
> I've had a few people ask if I'd ever write a sequel to "give me just one movie kiss," where Quentin and Eliot meet in Paris, pre-Brakebills. I haven't had any inspiration for that so far, but this fic does fit into the same theme, so it's now a series! This is an entirely separate story, though, so you don't have to read the other fic first.
> 
> Enjoy!

Eliot could say many things about Margo. Most of them wonderfully complimentary, because he adores his Bambi.

He will admit she does possess a few flaws: Absolute nightmare when she hasn’t had enough sleep. Total bedhog, despite her tiny stature. Obnoxious habit of stealing his food, after demanding that he cook for her and finishing her own portion. 

But one thing he would never have thought he’d have cause to say about Margo is that she’s being a _total buzzkill_. 

They’d gone into the city for one last hurrah before the semester started. Well, not that they would stop partying once the semester started. But it was nice to mark significant milestones and kick off another year at Brakebills with a bang, in Eliot’s opinion.

At the moment, he is hoping to literally start the school year off with a bang, as in banging the hot guy he just met. He and Margo had gone for a classy dinner and then on a less-classy bar hop. Their fourth stop of the night had produced promising results. 

Issac is blond and about Eliot’s height, buff not in an obvious way. He’s got cute little glasses and is definitely in some preppy frat; he just has that vibe. He’s a senior at Columbia. He’s studying entomology or maybe ecology. Eliot had nodded and feigned interest as Isaac had leaned over and talked into his ear, which wasn’t _strictly_ necessary, as it wasn’t _that_ loud at the bar. 

Margo was around somewhere. She had wrangled Isaac for him, and then ordered herself some shots. The last time he saw her she was putting the moves on a very hot, tall redhead in a tiny black dress. Good for her. 

It was all going to plan. Isaac was cute and actually kind of funny, in a dorky college kid kind of way. He also was incredibly into Eliot, leaning into him and touching his arm and laughing at pretty much everything he said. And he definitely was sucking on the straw of his vodka tonic (probably diet because he has to keep it tight) in an unmistakably suggestive way. Yeah, this was going to be good. 

Then, Isaac was saying, “So like, I have to stop at my friend’s party tonight, just real quick. You can come if you want? And then, you know, afterwards, we can—” 

The party, Isaac explained, was at some guy’s loft, and would be “totally chill.” Isaac had apparently promised to drop by, and he didn’t want to be “uncool.” 

Great. He could easily find someone else in this bar, or another, who would be ready and willing replacement for Isaac. It’s not like Isaac was _special_ or something. But he was cute, and not a _total_ moron, and they clearly had at least some basic chemistry. And he was at _this_ bar instead of dozens of other much tackier and cheaper places he could’ve patroned. And Eliot has standards, despite what some people may claim. 

Putting in the effort with another guy, starting over at this point in the night, was an exhausting prospect. He also could just pack it in and head back to Brakebills, but that would _not_ set a good tone for the rest of the year. 

So, fine. He could put in a half hour stint at some basic college apartment shindig. He asked Isaac if he wouldn’t mind waiting for him outside just a few minutes. He just needed to find Margo first. 

When he does, she informs him she has ceased pursuit of the hot redhead because it turned out she had a girlfriend who was not up for sharing. She doesn’t seem too put out by it, but then Margo could snap her fingers and have a dozen interested parties lining up in this bar alone. She’s fine. 

She is also, unfortunately, not up for accompanying Eliot to the party. 

“Go with you to a tragic normie excuse for a party at some Ivy League douche’s place? What for? So you can ditch me fifteen minutes in to go bone blondie over there?” she says, as she rolls her eyes and sips delicately at a martini. 

“No, you can meet someone there too!” Eliot insists. “Or, I’m sure I can talk Isaac into—”

Margo waves him off. “Nah, that’s okay. I actually think I’m gonna head back. Call it an early night.”

Eliot is aghast. Margo Hanson? Calling it an early night? On their last hurrah before the fall semester?

“Come on, Bambi, ditching me right now is like, the anti-wing woman move.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit, El. You don’t need me to hold your hand,” Margo says. She downs the rest of her drink in one gulp. “You got your boy toy all set for the evening.” 

Eliot sputters out a protest. 

“Well fine,” he says, feeling contrary now. “If you’re not going then neither am I.” 

Margo pats him on the arm and grabs her clutch.

“I insist that you go give that young man the experience of a lifetime. Do it for me.”

Well, who is he to argue with that.

-

The party is, as predicted, very basic. 

Loud music blares as a bunch of college kids sit or stand around in groups, each of them clutching a red Solo cup. Thank god for magic and for Brakebills. The Physical Kids would never have such a pathetic excuse for a gathering.

Isaac had chatted pleasantly on their walk to his friend’s apartment, which was in a nicer neighborhood than Eliot was expecting, given, you know, college party and all, but then again, Columbia. Rich kids. Ugh. 

The party host, Jake or something, had greeted them enthusiastically. He was also tall and handsome and fit. It’s like he and Isaac were rolled off the same assembly line at the Preppy Jock factory. Jake or Jack had immediately dragged Isaac off to a group of guys who also fit the model. 

“Help yourself to a drink. I just gotta borrow this guy for one second,” he said, grinning at Eliot. “Lacrosse team business. I promise I’ll have him back to you in a jiff.”

Sure. Lacrosse business. A jiff. 

Eliot takes a moment to wonder what the _hell_ he is doing there. He really followed some, admittedly hot guy, to a college party, because he wanted to fuck him? Should he just leave? How much would Bambi mock him if he headed back to the cottage now, without having ahem, sealed the deal?

He’s wandering idly around the quite large living area of the loft, really considering just bailing, when he hears a passing comment that catches his attention.

“It's the original version, the Danish version, that it's, like…it's dark. It's like one hundred times better because the Danish people, they're…they're, uh…they have a dark soul.”

 _What_? Eliot laughs a little and then turns around to see, what may be an exaggeration, but feels completely true in the moment, the cutest boy he’s ever laid eyes on.

He has sweet brown eyes, and soft-looking brown hair that he keeps brushing behind his ear with nervous hands, which are also quite lovely. Even his _nose_ is cute. And his mouth… 

None of the girls this insanely cute boy is talking to seem remotely interested in what he’s saying, which is absurd. Eliot has to do something. This is just wrong. 

The next thing he knows, he’s sliding into the little circle of people, insinuating himself right by the cute boy’s side and saying, “Wow, that’s _so_ interesting.” 

The boy blinks; his eyelashes are stupidly long, Eliot notes, feeling oddly breathless. “Really? I mean. Yeah. Obviously, it’s uh, it’s very interesting.” 

Eliot feels like he towers over him, which is really doing it for him, he has to admit. He’s staring up at Eliot hesitantly, like he’s not sure if he’s being made fun of.

Eliot is most definitely not making fun of him. He has no idea what he was talking about, of course, but he’s willing to hear more about whatever it is. Anything.

“I’m Eliot,” he says, and reaches out his hand. 

After a moment, the boy takes it and smiles. “Quentin.”

It should be a weird name and maybe objectively kind of is, but it just works for him. His hand is warm and strong. And he has dimples too. Of course. Fuck.

They’re just standing there smiling at each other for probably a weirdly long amount of time. The people Quentin had been talking to certainly seem to think so, because when Eliot looks up again, they’re gone. 

“Sorry,” he says, feeling anything but. “I think I scared away your friends.” 

Quentin blinks again and looks around. “Oh. That’s okay. They’re not really my friends. They’re uh, my best friend invited them?”

“And is your girlfriend here, too?” Eliot asks, just as Quentin takes another sip of whatever surely god awful concoction is in his cup. 

He chokes and coughs.

“My—what? Girlfriend? Um. No, I don’t have one of those,” Quentin sputters.

 _Perfect_.

Eliot makes soothing noises and rubs his shoulder in what is definitely a concerned and friendly manner.

He makes sure to wait until Quentin has recovered from his coughing fit and that he’s not about to take a drink before he says, “What about a boyfriend?”

“Hah! Wow. Um,” Quentin ducks his head and is he actually _blushing_? “No. I don’t have a boyfriend either.” 

Then, he looks up and brushes his hair behind his ear, looks Eliot straight in the eyes and says, “What about you?”

Well. Definitely bolder than Eliot would’ve given him credit for. This just keeps getting better and better.

“No,” Eliot says, leaning so that he has one armed propped on the wall next to Quentin’s head. “Neither.”

“Oh,” Quentin says. “That’s…cool. I mean. So um, how do you know Julia? Or James?”

He’s clearly nervous and it’s extremely cute.

“Who?” Eliot asks. He reaches out to place his other hand on Quentin’s hip.

Quentin gulps. “Uh, the hosts of the party?”

“Oh,” Eliot says, relishing the way Quentin’s leaning back against the wall and slightly arching his entire body towards Eliot’s, just slightly. “I don’t know either of them. To be honest with you, Quentin I came here with some guy named Isaac who I was planning on hooking up with. But after meeting you, I’m not remotely interested in doing that anymore. With him.”

It’s a lot to take in, and Eliot watches it all play out across Quentin’s gorgeously expressive face. It starts out disappointed and kind of hurt, his pretty mouth turning down in a perfect pout, and ends up shocked and pleased, a tiny smile and a hint of dimples.

“Poor Isaac,” Quentin says, but his face gives him away. “I know him. He’s one of James’ lacrosse teammates—well, former teammates, since James graduated, but he’s still involved with the team, like I think he’s like their unofficial coach now—um. Anyway. Issac’s a nice guy.” 

Isaac _is_ a nice guy. Which is why Eliot is sure he will have no trouble finding someone else to take home.

“Mm,” Eliot agrees vaguely. “What about you? How do you know the hosts of the party?”

Quentin opens his mouth to answer, but before he can, someone else speaks first.

“Q? Is this guy bothering you?”

It’s Jake, or Jack, the guy Eliot had met at the door. Or wait, no, Quentin had said his name was James, right?

Quentin starts and looks away from Eliot, in what seems like reluctance. Eliot does not move his hand from Quentin’s hip and Quentin doesn’t step away from him. 

“Hey James,” Quentin says. “No, he’s not bothering me. We’re um, having a nice conversation.”

James’ eyes are narrowed suspiciously. Which to be fair, could be because of the whole Isaac thing; Eliot had just arrived with him a mere twenty minutes ago, when that was a thing. 

But it seems like there might be more to it than that.

“Are you sure?” James asks. He crosses his arms like he’s going to beat Eliot up if Quentin asks him to. Eliot has a feeling this is not a new dynamic. 

“Yep!” Quentin says. “No need to worry about me. You can tell Julia I’m socializing with new people and everything, just like she wanted.” 

He gives a pleading look and James sighs and nods. 

“Fine. Guess I’ll also tell Isaac that he can go ahead and make other plans for tonight.”

He clearly says it with the intention of making Eliot feel guilty, and maybe he should. But he just can’t bring himself to it. Not with Quentin staring up at him again, that small smile on his face. 

“That would be great, thanks, Jake,” Eliot calls after him as finally, finally walks away.

Quentin actually giggles, like Eliot is so clever, instead of just kind of an asshole. Just like everything else about him, it’s unfairly cute. “It’s James.”

“Oh, so silly of me,” Eliot says. “Of course. _James_ wants to fuck you, by the way.”

The reaction this gets is…something. Quentin laughs incredulously, a little too loudly, and Eliot feels him go tense. His eyes dart back and forth. Okay, so, James may or may not want to fuck Quentin (he does) but it’s pretty clear that Quentin is not opposed to the idea of fucking James. 

“What? No! He’s Julia, my best friend Julia, I think I mentioned—anyway, he’s her boyfriend. He’s my friend. He’s not—it’s not like that. He’s just…protective. Like, like a brother.”

Eliot laughs. “You don’t have a brother do you?”

“No,” Quentin frowns. “I’m an only child.”

“Ah. So you’re used to being spoiled.”

Quentin’s eyes widen. He licks his lips.

“Um. Well. My dad did his best, but um—Do you?” he asks, sounding a little breathless.

“Do I what?” Eliot is staring at his mouth and isn’t sure what they’re talking about.

It seems like Quentin isn’t quite sure either, because it takes him a few seconds to regroup. “Do you um, have a brother? Or like, siblings, in general?”

And isn’t _that_ a surefire way to kill the mood. 

“None worth discussing,” Eliot settles on, and thankfully Quentin seems to take the hint. He nods and doesn’t push it. “I’m assuming you go to Columbia?”

It turns out Quentin did go to Columbia, but has now graduated. He’s in the process of interviewing for grad schools. 

“I have my first one tomorrow morning,” he says, shrugging. “It’s like, whatever. Yale.”

Sure. Just Yale. Whatever.

Of course this leads to Quentin inquiring about where Eliot did or does go to school. When asked, Eliot’s answer is that he’s a grad student at a very small, liberal arts college nearby. Like, very small. No one has ever heard of it, really, you wouldn't know it. 

Quentin frowns. “Really? Because I’ve done _a lot_ of research on grad schools. What’s it called?”

Thankfully, Eliot is spared from answering by a drunk girl who causes a distraction by stumbling across the floor and spilling her drink. The downside is that she happens to spill her drink all over the back of Eliot’s vest.

“Oh no!” she gasps. “I’m so sorry, I just bought these boots and I’m not used to—I can pay for the dry cleaning, that looks expensive.”

It is in fact very expensive, but Eliot surprises himself by finding that he doesn’t really care. He assures the girl—whose name is Nadia— that it’s fine and that breaking in new boots is always tough, so it could’ve happened to anyone.

“Do you want to go dry off at least?” Quentin asks. “Actually, I might have a shirt you can wear.”

“ _Here_?”

“Yeah, in my room?” Quentin says with a nod toward the other side of the loft.

It turns out that yes, Quentin lives here, and is roommates with Julia and James. The whole thing just gets more and more interesting.

Quentin’s room looks like a typical college student’s. Lots of books, clothes flung across every available surface, posters on the wall. 

“Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to clean,” Quentin mumbles, kicking a pile of laundry under the bed. “I was not expecting to have…a guest.” 

Eliot has seen much worse, honestly. And Quentin is cute enough that he can get away with it.

It turns out that Quentin only has two available clean shirts. He holds them out for inspection. One is another plaid flannel, similar to the one he has on right now. The other is an oversized t-shirt. It has a picture of a clock on it and says FILLORY AND FURTHER in a fancy script.

“Fillory?” Eliot asks. Oh, right, those fantasy books. He hasn’t read them, but Margo is a fan.

Quentin looks a little embarrassed. “Yeah, um. I know it’s a little…whatever, but. They’re my favorite books.” 

“Well, in that case,” Eliot says. “I obviously have to go with the Fillory shirt.”

Quentin blushes again. It’s _so_ cute.

He also very cutely turns his back as Eliot takes off his stained vest and button-up and throws on the t-shirt. It’s large on him, so Quentin must look like he’s absolutely drowning in it. The thought sends a twinge of heat through Eliot’s body.

“I obviously can’t go out there in this ensemble, so I guess we’ll just have to stay in here.”

Quentin is staring at him, slack-jawed. “Um, sure.” 

A very nice edition of a Fillory and Further book, the first one, apparently, is on the nightstand next to Quentin’s bed. Eliot picks it up and examines it carefully.

“You know, I’ve never read these,” he says, just to see Quentin’s reaction.

It doesn’t disappoint. “What? _Never_? Oh wow, you really should, I think that even adults can really get a lot—”

The door to Quentin’s room opens and a gorgeous dark haired girl in a sparkly miniskirt walks in.

“Q? Are you—oh! Sorry, I didn’t mean to—” 

This must be Julia. 

And sure enough, right behind her, is James. 

“Jules, did you—oh, there you are, Q. We uh, didn’t know where you went.”

Julia looks thrilled. James, not so much. 

“Well, as you can see, I’m in here and I’m fine, so you can just, you know—” Quentin sputters, making shooing motions with his hands.

“Okay,” Julia says, giggling a little. “We’re going. Have fun, guys! …James come _on_.”

She pulls him after her, gives Quentin a very obvious “okay” hand gesture (which makes him groan) and shuts the door.

“So uh, that’s Julia,” Quentin says, unnecessarily. “She’s. She can be a little annoying, sorry. We’ve been best friends since we were eight, so she’s. Protective.” 

Protective. There’s that word again. Quentin seems distracted now, gazing at the closed door where Julia and James had been a moment before.

“I believe you were trying to convince me that I should read the Fillory books,” Eliot reminds him, gently.

Quentin shakes his head as if to clear it and then says, “Um, right. So yeah, they’re obviously like, written to be understood by children, but actually there’s a lot that resonates even more when you’re an adult, like um, the themes—”

Eliot, book in hand, takes a seat on Quentin’s bed. He kicks off his shoes before lying back, his legs stretched out in front of him. 

“Well,” he says. He pats the spot next to him. “No time like the present.”

Quentin again has that look on his face like he’s not sure if Eliot is making fun of him. He’s so cute and smart and funny, it makes absolutely no sense that he doesn’t have people lining up outside his door every night.

When Eliot doesn’t laugh or make a joke or get up and leave, Quentin discards his shoes as well and climbs onto the bed, but cautiously, like he’s prepared to bolt at any moment.

Eliot hands him the book. 

“Do you want me to um, like read it to you?” Quentin asks shyly. It’s clear he likes the idea, but still doesn’t quite trust that Eliot is serious.

Eliot gets that. He also can’t quite believe he’s serious. He started the night on a mission, and was well on his way to it with Isaac. And he’d abandoned all of that so he could lie in bed wearing a giant t-shirt while a cute boy reads to him and a party rages on outside. _What will Margo say?_

And yet, that is absolutely what’s happening and Eliot can’t find that he actually regrets it. 

“Well, you’re the expert, I think I should hear it from the best,” he says, settling more comfortably into his pillow. 

He gets another one of Quentin’s small, pleased smiles at that. 

“Okay,” Quentin says.

He cracks the book open and immediately finds the page he’s looking for, almost like the book responds to his touch. 

“The World in the Walls, Chapter 1…” 

Quentin has a nice voice, clear and soft. Listening to him read is soothing. He knows the book so well, he’s practically reciting from memory at some points. He even has voices for all the characters; Jane and Rupert and Martin, all distinct, like they're friends he has known. Occasionally he will stop reading and give Eliot some context that is “really important to have the full understanding of this next paragraph” or will point out important passages that should be paid special attention: “okay, now, remember this next part, because it’s going to be really important later on.” 

Eliot can’t stop smiling; he knows he looks like an absolute idiot. But he’s never been more charmed by anything in his life. The book is fine, it’s good even, but Eliot thinks anything Quentin had read him would have instantly become the most fascinating thing he’d ever heard.

At the end of a chapter, Quentin pauses to clear his throat. Then he shakes his head and laughs. 

“Sorry, I just. Stuff like this doesn’t happen to me.”

“Stuff like what?” Eliot asks, even though he thinks he has a pretty good idea.

Quentin laughs again. “Um, any of this. A hot guy in my room wearing my stupid Fillory t-shirt asks me to read The World in the Walls to him? Like, any one of those things is hard enough to believe on its own.”

“I find it hard to believe you’ve never had a hot guy in your room before.” 

Quentin gives him a look. “Okay, I’ve had a few. But they weren’t uh. Really interested in Fillory or talking, in general. None of them were as hot as you, either.”

 _They didn’t deserve you_ , Eliot thinks, fiercely, suddenly furious that Quentin hasn’t been appreciated by every guy or girl who he had decided to give his attention.

The next thing he knows, he’s pulling himself up to place a hand at the back of Quentin’s neck and guide him down into a kiss.

Quentin makes the sweetest surprised sound.

“Wait, wait,” he gasps into Eliot’s mouth. “Let me—”

He pulls away to carefully close the book, marking their place with a receipt he finds on the bedside table. He sets it there, gently. He turns off the light. 

Then, he turns back to Eliot, smiling. “Okay.”

They kiss for a long time, stretched out on Quentin’s bed. They kiss as the party winds down outside Quentin’s door, and the guests filter out and the loft goes dark. Eliot can’t remember the last time he just kissed someone for this long, without it leading anywhere. It’s nice. It doesn’t feel like he’s missing out on anything at all, somehow. 

The night turns to the grey light of almost-dawn, and Eliot thinks they must have fallen asleep between one kiss and the next.

-

When Eliot wakes up only a few short hours later, Quentin is staring at him. 

“Good morning,” he yawns. 

It should possibly be weird, waking up next to the guy you met last night and then listened to read his favorite book out loud before you chastely kissed for hours. He’d fallen asleep wearing Quentin’s Fillory t-shirt and his own very nice, but not very comfortable pants, for god’s sake. 

But Quentin just smiles and leans in for a kiss and it’s not weird, it’s just nice.

Quentin’s kisses are more insistent this morning. He throws his leg over Eliot’s hips and straddles him, and Eliot brings his hands up to grasp at Quentin’s waist, licks into his mouth.

“Quentin—” he gasps, and Quentin pulls away, breathing heavily to say, “All my friends and like, everyone, call me Q. You can too, if you want.”

Eliot can’t help but laugh at this, the weirdly formal topic of conversation when he has Quentin writhing on top of him. He realizes they don’t even know each other’s last names, which is normally not an issue; Eliot has slept with plenty of people whose last names he never knew. But he’d never done anything as intimate with them as what he and Quentin had done last night.

Before he can even take another breath Quentin, _Q_ , is leaning down and whispering into his ear. 

“Can I blow you?”

Jesus.

“Are you sure?” Eliot asks, and Quentin nods, nuzzles at his jaw. 

“Uh huh. I really um. I really want to. If you do.”

Eliot reaches out to cup his cheek. “Yes.”

And then Quentin is sliding down his body and unbuckling his belt.

He has Eliot’s pants and briefs down around his ankles in no time. Fuck, he’s so eager. 

Even though Quentin had told him that he had been with guys before, and he clearly is no stranger to this, Eliot isn’t really sure what to expect. There is absolutely no way he could’ve anticipated the extent to which Quentin is apparently determined to suck his brains out through his dick.

“Holy—fuck,” Eliot gasps out, trying as hard as he can not to thrust into Quentin’s mouth, which is actually quite difficult, because Quentin is just _relentless_ and is making these absolutely obscene moaning noises. 

He pulls off suddenly, and not having his dick in Quentin’s mouth anymore is possibly the worst thing that’s ever happened to Eliot.

“You can hold my hair,” Quentin is saying, when Eliot is able to focus on things like human speech. “I…I like that.”

Of course he does. Because Quentin is the physical manifestation of just about every one of Eliot’s sexual fantasies. 

He holds Quentin’s silky hair and tugs on it a little, and _that_ really gets Quentin going, moaning even more and _swallowing_ around Eliot’s cock in his throat.

There’s no way he’s going to last much longer, but his attempts to communicate this to Quentin are just met with an eye roll like _yeah, that’s the point_. How he manages to be such a brat while he has a dick in his mouth, and how it somehow just makes him even hotter, is something Eliot will have to untangle at another time. 

Now though, he’s utterly fixated on the dark smudge of Quentin’s eyelashes against his cheeks, the way he lets out a surprised little grunt when Eliot rubs his thumb across the delicate shell of his ear, then down to the strong line of his jaw.

“Q,” Eliot gasps, and Quentin’s eyes open to meet his, and that’s it.

Eliot can’t remember the last time he came this hard. Even the first time someone blew him, it was good, great even. But it hadn’t been like this. 

He was sixteen and some classmate or another’s hot cousin was visiting from out of town, which was first of all strange, because why would anyone want to visit there. Anyway, Eliot was in the school musical—they were doing Oklahoma! that year—with this girl whose cousin was visiting, and the cousin, his name was Kyle, had attended the cast party. For some reason, Kyle was really nice in addition to being hot, and told Eliot how great he’d been as Curly. He had been, thank you very much, but most of the philistines around here had no idea or appreciation of the arts.

Kyle had ended up giving Eliot his first ever blowjob, in whoever was hosting the cast party’s guest room. Eliot doesn’t remember whose house it was, or Kyle’s cousin’s name, even though they’d been in the musical together. But he does remember Kyle. Maybe not exactly what he looked like; Eliot has vague impressions of hotness, bright blue eyes and dark hair, but he remembers exactly how it felt, to have someone want him like that, and to make him feel good.

Of course, Kyle had only been visiting for a week, and Eliot never saw him again. And he went on to hook up with some guys who were not nearly as nice to him as Kyle had been.

Eliot doesn’t even know why he’s thinking about that, right now. Except that even that understandably overwhelming moment doesn’t compare to this. Quentin’s mouth, Quentin in general, is a revelation.

It goes on for what feels like forever and Quentin just _takes it_ , shifting restlessly against the mattress.

When he finally pulls off, Eliot focus on trying to breathe and not have a panic attack about how he just got the best blow job of his life while wearing a fucking _Fillory t-shirt_. His pants still aren’t even all the way off. 

Quentin fishes around on the floor and finds a discarded plastic cup to spit into, which, gross, but also, like everything about this whole thing, weirdly hot? 

Quentin wipes his mouth. “So um, it was okay?”

Oh my _god_. He’s ridiculous.

“Take your clothes off and get over here,” Eliot gasps, and Quentin eagerly does as he’s told. Eliot takes the opportunity to do the same, finally pulling his pants and briefs off all the way, and discarding the absurd (adorable) Fillory shirt along the way. 

Quentin’s body is just as perfect as the rest of him, small and compact but his shoulders are broad and his arms are like, weirdly fit, for a nerd who looks like he doesn’t get out much? His thighs should not be allowed. When Eliot gets his hands on his ass, he decides it shouldn’t be allowed either.

That’s not even mentioning his dick, which Eliot can feel press against his stomach as Quentin kneels between his legs and leans down for a kiss. 

“What do you want?” Eliot asks, his mouth against Quentin’s.

Quentin moans. “I’m really—I’m close, just, touch me.”

He’s not joking. He’s _so_ hard already, and wet with precome, and when Eliot wraps his hand around him, he thinks Quentin might actually come right there, just from that.

“You liked sucking me off, baby?” Eliot asks with a kiss to his neck, which is currently conveniently on display, as Quentin has his head thrown back, his eyes closed and his eyebrows furrowed like he’s concentrating very hard. 

“Mm,” he agrees, and surges forward to get his mouth on Eliot’s again. “Just, kiss me, and keep…keep doing that, and I’ll—” 

On some instinct that feels like muscle memory, even though it can’t be, because he’s never done this before, with Quentin, Eliot gets his hands on Quentin’s hips and flips them, so Quentin is on his back, staring up at him. His eyes are wide and dark. 

As Eliot settles over him, he keeps his eyes on Quentin’s as he gets his hand on his dick again, and relishes the way Quentin gasps and arches up, his fingers scrabbling at the sheets, desperate.

And somehow, Eliot knows exactly what he needs. He gets Quentin’s hands pinned above his head. He holds him there with one hand wrapped around his wrists, while the other works at his cock with long, slow strokes.

Quentin…really likes this. His eyes glaze over and he twists a little in Eliot’s grip. He could easily get free from Eliot’s grasp if he wanted to. It’s clear he doesn’t want to. 

Eliot kisses him again, because it’s what he asked for. 

Quentin comes like that, with Eliot’s tongue in his mouth and Eliot’s hand wrapped around his wrists, and Eliot strokes him through it until he can’t take it anymore, and he’s making hurt, oversensitive sounds against Eliot’s lips. 

After some hasty cleanup, they scoot to the clean part of the bed, face-to-face with their heads on Quentin’s pillow. This is normally the part where Eliot would want to leave, but he doesn’t. He wants to stay as long as Quentin will let him.

“This is stupid, I know it sounds crazy. But I feel like I—I mean I know I haven’t, because I would have _definitely_ remembered you, but. I feel like I’ve met you before?” Quentin says, and then turns his face into the pillow, embarrassed.

Eliot reaches out to stroke his hair. “It doesn’t sound crazy.”

He knows exactly what Quentin means. There’s something about him… 

From outside Quentin’s door, Eliot hears the sound of someone puttering around the kitchen, opening cabinets, starting a coffee maker. It’s oddly sobering; a reminder that there’s a whole world outside this room. 

Quentin sighs. “That’s Julia. We’re supposed to go to breakfast together, to prep for my interview.”

Some ridiculous, immature part of Eliot wants to say, _blow it off, spend the whole day in bed with me_. Or, even more preposterously, _let me take you to Paris and kiss you under the Eiffel Tower_. He even thinks Quentin might say yes.

He doesn’t say it, though. Instead, he says that’s okay, because actually, he has to get back to campus, because he’s needed for the new student orientation today. It’s not even a lie. He promised Henry he’d be a guide for some poor unsuspecting first year. 

When he’s dressed again, in his rumpled pants and button-up, and his stained vest hung over his arm, he turns to see Quentin holding the t-shirt Eliot had worn, a smile on his face that looks more sad than anything. Eliot’s only known him since last night, but he’s seen enough of Quentin’s smiles to tell. 

“Here,” he says. “You um. You should have it. To, you know, remember me by.”

Quentin clearly thinks they’re never going to see each other again. Which is fair. This is the kind of situation where you typically don’t see the other person again. 

Eliot takes the t-shirt. Quentin’s shoulders droop almost imperceptibly. 

“Sure,” Eliot finds himself saying. “I’ll have it washed, since you were so kind to lend it to me. But then you’ll have to give me your phone number. So I can return it, nice and clean.” 

The way Quentin’s eyes light up and the corners of his beautiful mouth turn up, just slightly, before he ducks his head and nervously tucks his hair behind his ear, stupidly makes Eliot’s heart beat faster. 

They exchange phone numbers, and a kiss. Well, it’s supposed to be one kiss. That was absolutely the plan. But Quentin is making that impossible. He pushes up on his toes and rests his hands against Eliot’s chest. He’s so sweetly demanding, how is Eliot supposed to say no? 

When he finally pulls away, Quentin smiles up at him.

“Um. Thank you.” 

“For what?” Eliot presses a kiss to his forehead. “Kissing you?”

“Well, yeah, that too,” Quentin laughs a little, and then his face settles into something more serious. “But no, um. I was going to sell that book, you know. It’s a first edition.”

Eliot frowns, but he holds back from saying anything. He has a feeling that if he’s patient, Quentin will tell him. He rubs Quentin’s back, and waits.

“I um, I got in this fight with Julia. She’s the one who told me about Fillory in the first place, when we were kids, you know? But. Basically, she told me I need to grow up. So I thought, fine, I’ll show her. I’ll get rid of all my stupid books and memorabilia and nerd shit and then I’ll be _so_ grown up—” 

Quentin takes a deep breath. 

“I was just feeling…left behind. But then last night—it all came back, how much the books mean to me, and how—I literally would not be alive without them. I’m uh, I’m kind of fucked up,” he says, like an apology.

Eliot nods, because yeah, he gets that. That makes two of them. 

“So…you’re not selling your books?”

“Nope,” Quentin says, defiant and brave and beautiful. “Fuck it. Maybe it’s pathetic, but whatever. I mean, I’m not delusional. I’m not like, some kid playing make believe. I know it’s not real.” 

Despite his words, his voice is wistful, and god, the look on his face. Eliot aches. He wants so badly to tell him that he’s not pathetic at all, and maybe Fillory isn’t real, but magic is, and Eliot can show it to him, all of it, everything. He would give anything to see how Quentin would smile.

But he can’t. He’ll never be able to tell him.

Instead, he says, “Good. I’m glad you’re keeping them. Fuck Julia. I mean, sorry, I know she’s your best friend—”

But Quentin’s snort-laughing and then covering his mouth. “No, uh. It’s okay. I definitely feel that way, sometimes.”

There’s probably no future here, because Eliot will never be able to share magic, Brakebills, that part of his life, his whole life really, with Quentin. 

He should probably just ghost him, for his own good. They shouldn’t have even exchanged numbers. 

So of course, the next words out of his mouth are, “You should text me later. Let me know how your interview went.” 

The smile it gets him is worth it.

Quentin walks him to the door and holds his hand. Eliot clutches his vest and the t-shirt in the other. 

Julia is still in the kitchen, and she surveys them with raised eyebrows and a sly grin. “Did you boys have a nice time at the party last night?”

“Ugh,” Quentin says, and rolls his eyes.

“I had a _wonderful_ time, Julia, thank you so much for your hospitality,” Eliot says. “And thank your boyfriend, too.”

He’s actually surprised James isn’t around, waiting to grill Eliot about his _intentions_. Or maybe he and Isaac and the rest of the lacrosse team are waiting to jump him in the stairwell. 

Even though Julia is right there, Quentin kisses him again—last one this time, really.

“For luck,” he explains.

Back at Brakebills, Eliot practically floats to the Physical Kids Cottage and up to his room. He sets a privacy ward to shield his room from outside noise, and another to lock his door. He has a few hours before he needs to meet the little first year. Also, Quentin won’t be out of his interview until later in the afternoon, anyway. Not that Eliot is expecting him to text _immediately_ afterwards. Of course not.

He flops face first into his bed with a happy sigh. He deserves a nap, and he’s pretty sure this is going to be the best sleep he’s had in quite awhile. 

-

He awakes to the dulcet tones of Margo Hanson dumping a glass of water on his head and yelling in his ear.

“Eliot! Wake up, you absolute—do you have any idea what time it is?”

He doesn’t, but he feels absolutely refreshed and revitalized. 

When he tells Margo this, she is not impressed.

“Oh, I’m _so_ happy for you, El. That’s really fantastic. I’m glad you feel _refreshed and revitalized_ , because it’s after five pm, you completely slept through your appointment to meet the first year you were supposed to be escorting, and Fogg had to come find _me_ to fill in for you.”

Huh.

“Well Bambi, I’m sure you did an outstanding job. Henry couldn’t have found a better substitute,” Eliot says with a pat to her arm as he blinks against the water dripping into his face.

He sits up and cautiously pats his hair. Oh well. He needed to shower in any case. 

Margo scoffs. “Damn right. I told Henry if he wants something done right he should come to me first next time.”

“You’re absolutely correct,” Eliot agrees, because just like him, Margo is swayed by compliments, and sure enough, he can see her softening.

She settles next to him on the bed.

“Don’t worry, I covered for you.”

“You’re the best, Bambi,” he says with a kiss to her cheek.

“Obviously,” she shrugs, wiping hastily at the wet mark it leaves on her face. 

Eliot casually reaches over to check his phone. No new text messages.

“So,” Margo says, “How was your night with _Isaac_?” 

“Who?” Eliot is distracted checking to make sure his cellular data is turned on.

Margo groans. “Don’t tell me you followed this guy to a party at some random person’s house because you wanted to get laid and now you don’t even remember his name. You weren’t _that_ drunk when I left.”

Oh, right. Isaac.

“Do you have any bars right now?” Eliot asks, holding his phone up above his head. “I feel like my reception in here is always complete shit. Is it better in your room?”

Margo is staring at him like she’s never seen him before. 

“Wow, that bad, huh? Look, El, I’m really sorry you had some disappointing dick last night. It happens. But it's almost time for the reception and you need to shower. You look like shit.”

Eliot kindly does not point out that part of the reason he looks like shit is because she dumped water all over his hair.

Fuck. The unofficial (according to Dean Fogg) official (according to Eliot and Margo) Welcome to Brakebills reception (much classier than just a party) for all the newbies. The first Physical Kids event of the year, and an important time to scope out potential new conquests. 

Eliot would be remiss to skip, but his heart just isn’t in it. Margo would kill him, though, and she did him a huge favor earlier.

“Oh,” Margo says, as Eliot is heading to the shower. “And wear something cute, because the first year I met today is right up your alley. …What is this? _Why_ do you have a fucking Fillory and Further t-shirt?”

-

Eliot, per Margo’s instruction, is wearing one of his best outfits. He is in the kitchen, dutifully preparing drinks and appetizers, and enjoying Margo’s carefully curated playlist. He’s also only checking his phone every fifteen minutes, because he’s not a complete loser, thank you very much. 

Quentin hasn’t texted. Which is fine, he’s probably celebrating his successful interview with Julia and James. Maybe they’ll have a weird little threesome afterwards. No, Eliot is definitely not going to think about that. 

“El,” Margo says, appearing at his side. She looks excited. “That boy I told you about is here. Come see. He’s exactly your type.” 

Eliot’s not interested, but he figures it doesn’t hurt to look, so he dutifully follows Margo into the other room. 

It’s crowded, filled to the brim with excited first years, overwhelmed with everything that’s happened to them today, and obviously some non-first years, too, always eager to attend a party, especially with so many new people to potentially hook up with.

Margo takes his hand and leads him in view of the couch. 

“That one,” she says, nodding subtly while taking a sip of her drink. “In the dorky tie.” 

Eliot looks, and. 

There’s no way. He must be having a stroke.

“Cute, right?” Margo is saying, but Eliot barely hears her. 

“Uh huh,” he says. “I’m gonna—”

Margo grins. “Told you.” 

He’s making his way over to the couch; it feels like he’s moving underwater, like it does when you try to walk in a dream.

Close up, there’s no mistaking it. 

Quentin is sitting on the couch in the Physical Kids Cottage. Which means… 

He has magic. He passed the exam. He’s coming to Brakebills. All of this his Eliot simultaneously. His first thought is how happy Quentin must be, and how happy Eliot is for him. 

_I’m kind of fucked up_ , Quentin had said, and not that being here will fix it, but god, aren’t they all. There’s some comfort in that, in not being alone. 

Eliot’s next thought, and he’s not necessarily proud of it, is _oh thank god that’s why he wasn’t texting me_. 

It takes a second to realize that the girl on the couch Quentin is gesticulating wildly towards is _Julia_. Huh. Small world. No James, though. Some people just can’t cut it. 

“So,” Eliot says, settling gracefully on the couch next to Quentin. “I watched this movie the other day, and it was okay, but I feel like I really should’ve gone with the original Danish version. Thoughts?” 

Quentin whips around, wide-eyed. Yep, he’s still the cutest boy Eliot has ever seen. 

Julia shrieks. “Eliot? Oh my god!” 

“Welcome to Brakebills,” Eliot says. “Congratulations.”

That gets a smile out of Quentin, bigger than Eliot has ever seen, dimples on full display. 

“Thank you,” he says. 

“Wait,” Julia gasps. “Did you know? Were you like, recruiting us?” 

Eliot shakes his head. “Nope. No clue. It was just my lucky night, I guess.” 

Quentin smiles again, this time shyer and softer, but no less real.

“I’m gonna, uh, go refresh my drink!” Julia says brightly, as Quentin and Eliot stare at each other.

“I keep thinking…this doesn’t feel real?” Quentin says, after she leaves. Eliot knows the feeling. “Like, it’s too good to be true. This kind of stuff doesn’t happen to me.”

Eliot wants only good things to happen to him, from now on. 

“I _assure_ you,” he says, casually sliding a hand onto Quentin’s knee. “This is very real. But if you could still use some convincing—” 

He means to kiss Quentin, but Quentin kisses him first, before he has a chance.

A minute later, or maybe it’s twenty minutes, later or maybe it’s tomorrow, Eliot hears a voice over his shoulder. 

“Well shit, that was fast, even for you, El.”

Eliot pulls away from a reluctant Quentin to see Margo standing there looking equal parts impressed and bewildered.

Quentin beams at her, flushed. “Hi again.”

When Eliot takes his hand, he somehow smiles even brighter. 

“Bambi,” Eliot says, “I believe you’ve met Quentin. And you’re right. He is exactly my type.”

**MARGO, EARLIER THAT DAY**

Margo could say many things about Eliot. She loves him more than anything, so most of the stuff on the list would be good.

He has a few flaws that really piss her off, though: Has a tendency to use up her very expensive shampoo and leave the empty bottle in the shower. Weirdly snobby about pop music. Annoyingly passive aggressive at times.

She’s willing to overlook that stuff. Mostly.

This, though, is testing her patience. 

First, he’d gone trawling after some mediocre dick the night before, and gotten annoyed with _her_ for not wanting to tag along. 

She doesn’t blame him for the trawling for dick part. They’ve all been there. But she just wasn’t in the mood. So sue her, she’d rather be back at the cottage, with a nice bubble bath and her waterproof vibrator.

So Eliot had gone off on his little expedition, and she’d gone home and relaxed. No big deal.

Except he’d apparently crawled home at god knows what hour and warded his room so he couldn’t hear her banging on the door, and then absolutely _refused_ to wake up, no matter how much she yelled or shook him.

Normally, Eliot is a pretty light sleeper, especially when he’d been drinking. Margo had been worried for about ten seconds, but then he’d let out a sigh and smiled a little in his sleep before rolling over. Weird. 

So, he was alive and apparently fine, but there was no way she’d be able to get him up and presentable in time. He was supposed to be guiding some dumb little first year candidate to the entrance exam like, _now_.

She could totally just leave him hanging, after all, this isn’t her shit to sort out, but she’s not that kind of friend. And well, by default, Eliot’s shit is sort of hers, too. 

She assures Dean Fogg that _no, of course she doesn’t mind_ taking over Eliot’s babysitting duties for him, even though it’s a complete waste of time. Why do the first years even need to be guided to the exam? Shouldn’t they be smart enough to figure it out on their own? 

Kind of funny; taking the care to guide them nicely to the entrance exam, and then once they’re in, boom. All bets are off. Good luck, bitches!

Because she really is the best friend anyone could possibly ask for, Margo even goes the extra mile and makes up an excuse that makes Eliot look less like a forgetful layabout. 

“Food poisoning,” she says, schooling her face into a sad expression. “You know how it is.” 

“Quite,” Dean Fogg says, after a moment. 

Yeah, he definitely thinks Eliot is puking his guts out after getting thoroughly blotto the night before. But Eliot doesn’t need to know that. She did her best. 

The first year is _late_ , which on one hand is obnoxious. On the other, it’s very convenient, because after all that, Margo is late, too.

She looks down at the card in her hand. _Quentin Coldwater_.

What the fuck kind of name is that? 

Still, though, she wants to make a good impression, so she hops up onto the wall and adopts a lounging pose that she hopes looks casual, but really is carefully calculated to show off her legs. She wore her best heels, too. Why not. Might as well have a little fun with it. 

Soon enough, she sees someone stumble out of the trees and onto the Sea. This must be him. 

As _Quentin Coldwater_ quickly makes his way towards her, Margo takes in his shocked expression, the awe on his face when he sees her, which sure, obviously has a lot to do with the fact that he just walked through a portal from wherever the fuck and has no idea what’s going on. But also, he clearly notices her legs. Mission accomplished.

She also notices that he’s _cute_. Not her type, but holy shit. Eliot is going to absolutely die. Well, provided this kid isn’t as clueless as he looks and actually passes the exam.

“Quentin Coldwater?” she drawls. 

Quentin nods. He’s still staring at her, mouth slightly open.

“Great,” Margo says as she lowers herself off the wall. “Let’s go, Quentin Coldwater.” 

She walks over to him, grabs him by the tie, and pulls.

He follows, even while saying, “Go where? What is this place? Am I hallucinating?” 

Margo rolls her eyes, doesn’t slow her pace. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that. Come _on_ , Coldwater, do you want to miss it?” 

“No!” he says, jogging to catch up with her. “I mean, I don’t know what _it_ is exactly, but this is the most interesting thing that’s happened to me in my entire life, so whatever it is, I don’t want to miss it.” 

Determined as she is to mock the kid, Margo can’t help but find that a little sweet. 

They’re finally outside the hall.

“Come on,” she says. “In here.” 

Just outside the door to the exam room, Margo puts out a hand.

“Now, listen. I know you’re overwhelmed, but you need to focus, okay?” 

Quentin nods, even though she knows he has no idea what she’s asking him to focus on. 

“Good boy. I’ll see you later, okay?” She might not, but he doesn’t know that, and if that’s that case, he won’t remember anyway. She reaches out to tug on his tie again. “I have a friend who I know will want to meet you.” 

Quentin Coldwater opens the door to the exam room. Then he turns around.

For fuck’s sake. Is he chickening out? 

“Wait,” he says. “You never told me your name.” 

Margo smiles. 

“I’m Margo. Nice to meet you, Quentin Coldwater.” 

He smiles back, and then heads into the exam room, closing the door behind him. 

She kind of likes this kid. She hopes he passes. 

And Eliot is really just going to lose his mind. She can’t wait to see it.

**Author's Note:**

> I had been planning to take the title for this from "King of My Heart" the entire time. Then, while out on a walk, Spotify decided to play "Enchanted" and it was too perfect to ignore. So, one for the fic title, one for the series title. Double dose of Taylor. Quentin would approve. 
> 
> Poor Isaac! Maybe he and James can console each other. By the way, I have been DYING to write about how Quentin obviously was into both his best friend and her boyfriend, and after @hoko_onchi's perfect Quentin/James fic, I am more determined than ever to spread the Quames agenda. I swear, it's like that fic read my mind. 
> 
> Ah, the good ol' "alternate universe-canon divergence" tag. I just can't stay away...


End file.
